


Mystery to Be Solved

by Chickeon



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cute Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, POV Third Person, Trust Issues, glarthir does not understand people being nice to him, two nerds bonding over being nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickeon/pseuds/Chickeon
Summary: Glarthir was an enigma to Skingrad. He was a mystery to everyone, his thoughts unknown and his motivations vague. People knew him, but no one was close enough to understand him. No one wanted to know him, since most people thought they knew everything there was to know. He was a crazy elf that acted strange, and that was all to him, but yet, people still speculated.The mysterious elf fascinated Erthor, known throughout the city as a reckless mage, unable to see through the consequences of his actions and blindly pursuing magical knowledge. He loved to pick apart theories, to hypothesise about the nature of magic, to experiment endlessly on whatever took hold of his mind. Glarthir captured his thoughts, and as much as he knew he had no chance, he stole his heart as well. He was a problem without a solution. An occurrence unpredictable.He thought he would never get the chance to see the solution, to make the unknown known, but unstudied phenomena can manifest in places you wouldn't expect to find them.
Relationships: Erthor/Glarthir
Kudos: 8





	Mystery to Be Solved

**Author's Note:**

> well heres something kinda cute
> 
> ive put both of these fools through enough and considering what ive got planned for glarthir... he, at least, will be put through a lot more. just cause i love him doesnt mean i dont like making him suffer for my amusement, but watching him actually be happy is also nice. he doesnt seem to have much a reason to be happy in canon, and he deserves happiness.
> 
> and who better to pair him with than the other weird bosmer in skingrad?

Pushing through the gates into Skingrad, the city hit Erthor with familiar, yet unwavering awe. A week away from it gave his mind, always searching for new stimulation, ample time to forget anything aside from where the Mages’ Guild was and the best route to get there. The slight skip in his heart as he passed under the Low Bridge, hanging precariously above his head yet under no pressure to fall, never changed despite seeing it being a normal occurrence. Skingrad was an architectural marvel to him, large structures built with gravity in mind, but aesthetics as well. He was no architect. Dedicating his magical pursuits almost solely to Destruction, he lacked experience to build anything substantial, but it fascinated him how others could take stones, objects he knew hated to be unsupported, and have them hang above his head without bowing or threatening to cave.

He walked down the flagstone path splitting the city, the walls towering above him for miles. He asked itself how many Erthors would it take to match the height of the walls. That would be easy if he knew their exact height, but he could only estimate. Settling on around ten, he continued, noting the yellowing leaves of the trees dwarfed by the walls. The summer heat baked the land, the plant life shriveling and turning yellow. In Southern Cyrodiil, water would be sucked into the sky and spat back onto the land, making it miserable, but at least people recieved water. The dry winds from Hammerfell were barren, and any wind from Valenwood left its rain at the border. Erthor wiped away a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face and continued forward.

Coming upon an intersection, Erthor’s heart ached. He could take the normal path to his right and get out of the heat, or take the longer path to his left and have a chance of seeing _him._ Gods, what an idiot he was, falling for with the least available man in the city aside from the Count, but he foolishly hoped luck would orchestrate things in his favour. He saw a bit of himself in Glarthir, which caused his initial interest and provided kindling for the spark that set his heart ablaze with love. A pitiable figure, a victim of his own mind, damning any consequence of his actions and doing as he pleased. It was enviable, casting off expectations and existing how he wanted, but part of him knew Glarthir was ignorant to how odd his actions were. But his odd actions made him unique. Interesting. Mysterious, in a way, and Erthor couldn’t stand it. He needed to unravel him, know what went on in his mind, shoo away anyone who thought him to be a freak, comfort him when he felt bad….

He shook his head and chose the path on his right. It was stupid to think he had a chance. How could he approach him? He couldn’t _watch_ him to understand what would up his odds, since the mere act of watching him would draw Glarthir’s ire. What things, other than the conspiracy he kept rambling about, could he talk to him about? No one knew of any hobbies he partook in, anything “normal” he took interest in. He had an academic vibe to him, but would talking academically scare him off or make him feel inferior? Erthor didn’t know. He didn’t know and he hated not knowing, and he hated waiting for the right moment since it felt like it would never arrive. 

Wilting and wanting to be out of the sun, he picked up his pace as soon as he passed through the archway. The Fighters Guild’s red banners were static in the still air, the ivy and flowers creeping up on the pillars of the buildings browning on the edges of their leaves. Finally reaching the building, he smiled and prepared himself to socialise. He liked being back around people, but after a week of isolation, he needed to adjust to it.

He expected many people to be in the guildhall, but he least expected Glarthir to be staring him in the face as he opened the reinforced doors into it. His heart skipped, his eyes connecting with Glarthir’s green ones glossed with agitation. Erthor’s hands traveled to his shirt, wanting to play with it to get his anxiety out, but he forced himself to remain composed. 

Glarthir approached him. “You!” he shouted, giving Erthor a jolt, “Are you with the Guild?”

Panicking, he answered “Y-yes?”

“I need something.” By how he said it, Erthor didn’t have a choice in helping him find whatever he needed. “I need something, and I _know_ its in here, but everyone’s hiding it from me.”

“Hiding… what?”

“Books! They don’t want me to know anything. They want me to stay weak. They want to-”

“What kind of books?”

Glarthir paused and blinked, collecting his thoughts. “Books on Mysticism. I’ve asked everyone in this building, and I know for _certain_ they have a few.”

How fitting, he thought, that the most undiscovered man would be into the most undiscovered magic. “Oh. Follow me, then.”

“Y-you’ll help me?” The incredulity in his voice was, admittedly, kind of cute. Erthor suppressed a blush.

“Of course.” He walked over to the stairs and waved Glarthir over. “Are you already familiar with Mysticism or are you trying to pick it up?”

“I’m trying to learn it,” he said, words stabilising, “I think learning it would be… useful.”

“What’re you planning to do with it?” They climbed the stairs.

“Why do _you_ need to know?” Accusation coated each word, his sibilants daggers and his plosives maces.

Erthor’s heart sank. Shakingly, he responded “I… I just wanted to know! Everyone gets into magic for their own reasons, a-and I was curious about yours!”

Glarthir’s unamused, annoyed expression stayed constant, but he still followed him up the stairs. Taking a right, Erthor lead him to a bookshelf, shelved with books and alchemical equipment. He didn’t know where they kept the Mysticism books, if he was completely honest with himself. He knew they had them, but the specific shelf they’d be on escaped him. A light panic set in, a pressure clouding his mind as he sped through reading the spines of the books he could see and raising up on his toes to see the ones he couldn’t. What if he made an idiot of himself? What if he accidentally lied about knowing where they were, ensuring Glarthir would never trust him?

Erthor mentally told himself to get a grip. Panic would make him screw up. He turned around and checked the shelf closest to the stairs, sparse with books and mostly holding ingredients. No luck there. Glarthir grew impatient, his face souring more, but remained silent. Forcing a smile, Erthor ringed around the table in the center of the room and went to the thin bookshelf. The stained glass in the centre of the room’s wall, overlooking the city streets, cast blues and oranges onto the floor and table, lighting the room and giving it a dash of colour. Scanning the shelves, he jolted, seeing the spine of a book on Mysticism… entirely out of reach. Damn these guild members, taking advantage of his short stature to make his practice an ounce more difficult. 

An idea popped into his head. Stepping back from the bookshelf, he focused his mind on the book, thinking of about its weight and how much magical force he needed to exert on it. He knew next to nothing about Mysticism, but he was familiar enough with telekinesis to both have a chance of successfully levidating the book, _and_ impressing Glarthir. The thought of him being amazed by his abilities made his heart leap. Feeling his anxiety fall back as confidence set in, Erthor moved his hands forward, then snapped them back, drawing the book outward and into the air. His eyes flicked back at Glarthir. His eyes focused on the book, wide and curious. The effect he wanted to happen happened exactly how he envisioned it. 

“You… you know Mysticism!” he spoke, unsure if it was a thought aloud or intentionally verbal.

Carefully pulling the book down closer, he nodded. “I know a little,” Erthor said nonchalantly, downplaying the magical effort he put into dragging it out. It was a simple spell, but without the knowledge of how to use his magic as efficiently as he would with any Destruction spell, it left him fatigued. Ceasing his hold on the book, he caught it as it fell. Turning to face Glarthir, he presented the book.

Glarthir tentatively gripped the book, letting its weight fall into his hands and suddenly yanking it back. He opened it, flicked through a few pages, and smiled. It was a maniacal smile, a smile that would worry others seeing it on the town eccentric, but it only made Erthor mirror it. “This… this is perfect!” he said, closing the book and looking up at Erthor.

“Great! I’ll mark that you’ve checked it out and-”

“You _must_ teach me.”

Erthor paused, trying to process what he was interrupted with, heart picking up speed as the realisation came to him. “Wh-what?”

“You know how to cast Mysticism spells, do you not?” His smile gave way to confusion.

“Of course.”

“Then teach me. Do I have to pay-”

“No!” he blurted out, “No. You don’t need to pay.”

Glarthir’s grin returned with a vengeance. He let out a small giggle before catching himself and clearing his throat, returning to neutrality. “Thank you,” he said.

“We can’t practice here, though.” Erthor walked towards the stairs, brushing up against the other Bosmer in a calculated move that he could pass off as accidental. “I’m not allowed.”

“Not allowed?” he echoed, “This _is_ the Mages Guild, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but an… incident… happened. If Adrienne catches me, she’ll skin me alive.”

Glarthir hummed in thought before perking up. “Was that a few months back?”

Erthor nodded, descending the stairs. “You’ve heard,” he mumbled bitterly. No one forgets anything in this city.

“With the scamp, wasn’t it? Destroyed some property, injured a few people?”

Erthor held back his tongue and nodded, preparing for a scolding.

“And that was _you?_ You’re Erthor?”

“Yep.” He tried to hold back his irritation, as to not turn Glarthir against him, but couldn’t stop some from leaking out.

“You’ll have to teach me that as well.”

Erthor paused as he was opening the door, a heat rising up his body and settling firmly on his face. Still, he played confident. “Maybe another time I could show you.”

Glarthir’s excitement was visible for a few seconds, before he forced himself to calm. “I suppose that if you’re teaching me, you’ll need to know who I am. I’m Glarthir.”

He already knew, as well as the rest of the city, who he was, but he feigned surprise. He extended a hand, which Glarthir hesitantly shook. “Nice to meet you,” he said, retracting as weakness took him. 

As if the day wasn’t hot enough, Erthor had to deal with his own infatuation working against maintaining a comfortable temperature. His mind spun, both lost in thought and fixated on the Bosmer walking beside him. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume Glarthir casted a fatigue spell on him, and a strong one at that, when their hands touched briefly for their handshake. They were soft, fingers begging to be intertwined with his. If he was more daring, he’d brush his hand up against Glarthir’s as they walked, but he couldn’t risk it. If he came on too strong, he’d scare him off. Erthor settled for split-second glances, averting his eyes when his own feelings overwhelmed him. Passing under the same bridge he passed under when he arrived, the second set of footsteps died. He stopped, looking behind him and seeing Glarthir frozen, the shadow of the bridge dividing them.

Erthor approached him, trying to read his expression. “Is there something wrong?”

“Um….” Glarthir’s eyes fell to the ground, arms tight against his sides. “We’re going out of the city?”

“Yeah. Can’t practice in the streets, can I?”

“W-well, I don’t see why it would be a… an issue.”

“Practicing magic can be destructive. I don’t want to pay another fine.”

“B-but you’re not teaching me Destruction! We don’t have to leave!”

Erthor chuckled, hoping to alleviate the tension. “Even messing up with Restoration can hurt people.” His gaze softened, as did his words. “Do you not want to leave?”

Glarthir nodded, clasping his hands together tightly and rubbing one with the other’s thumb.

“Don’t worry.” He smiled gently. “I can get rid of any wild animals or bandits that try to hurt us.” He didn’t calm, leaving him confused as to what he was anxious over. “Why don’t you want to leave?”

Glarthir folded his arms, worry giving way to annoyance. “And why do _you_ care?” he snarled, loud enough to hear, but quiet overall.

“Because I can tell you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset! I’m perfectly calm!” Ironically, those words were panicked.

“Glarthir, it’s… its okay!” Erthor’s confidence wavered despite how much he wanted to make him feel better. He didn’t know what was causing this, nor did he know what to say to fix it. “We don’t have to go far outside the city! I promise I’m capable of fighting things off.”

“I don’t care what’s out there!” he shouted, startling the taller Bosmer. ”I care about what’s in this damn city! The people that I know will take advantage of my leave! If I take one step out of Skingrad, I’m going to lose everything.”

His eyes softened. Glarthir was so worked up, so frightened over a future he could see so clearly that would never come to fruition. As much as he wanted to correct him, tell him he was panicking over nothing, he refrained. This _was_ something to him. This _was_ real to him. “People won’t break into your house,” Erthor started, a plan already formed, “You know why?”

Glarthir predicted where this conversation would go, and his mood dropped accordingly. “...Why?” he groaned.

“‘Cause if they do, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

He blinked. An unexpected turn. “Y… you what?”

Erthor nodded. “I’ll find out who they are and I’ll take care of them for you. I promise. I’ll give them a good-” he let out a small spark of lightning from the tip of his finger “-shock, if they try.”

Glarthir suppressed a laugh. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, a playfulness colouring his speech. “Do we have to go very far?”

Erthor thought for a moment. “I usually practice a way’s out from here, but we don’t have to go that far.”

“Good,” he sighed, the tension releasing from his back and shoulders and hopping back beside him, “Lead the way.”

Nodding, Erthor continued on, retreading the same path he took when he arrived. He pushed through the large wooden doors, smiling politely to one of the guards on duty. The guard returned the gesture for a second, then fell back into a cold expression upon seeing who was accompanying him. Glarthir fell behind him, walking close, as he fumbled in his jerkin and flipped through his notebook, using the Mysticism book as a surface to write something down in it before shoving it back. It piqued his interest, considering he had spotted him doing just that some times before, and once they were a good distance away from the guards, he decided to comment on it.

“You have a notebook?” he asked, a mix of a question and a statement.

Glarthir nodded.

“What do you use it for?”

“None of _your_ business,” he hissed, ending that conversation before it could develop, leaving them both in silence.

Erthor returned his attention to the road, although with his mind, his attention wandered. There was a small pond further ahead, past the vineyards and far enough away from the city for them to not get in trouble. Small green bubbles of grapes peeked out from the dry leaves in the fields, ready for harvesting in a few weeks, and further away from being made into the wines that made Skingrad famous. A few clouds rolled in, small and sparse, barely enough to dent the heat of a Cyrodillic summer. His ears twitched, hearing Glarthir shuffle out his notebook, step closer to him, and write once more.

“Damn woman,” he grumbled, barely perceptible, “Always following me. Always _watching._ ”

The hatred was thick in his tone, but as he turned his eyes towards where Glarthir glared, all he could see was a woman minding her own business and tending the fields. He knew this woman, not by name but that she worked with Tamika. What could she have done to deserve Glarthir’s ire? And, now that he noticed it, what did he do to cause Glarthir to get physically closer to him when he was upset? Not that he could complain. If he didn’t know any better, he’d slip an arm around his waist, hopefully giving him some reprieve from his mind, but they had just met. Erthor may have won so _me_ of his trust, but not _all_ of it, and definitely didn’t have enough to attempt anything as obvious as _that_. As much as he wanted to take that slim chance that Glarthir would love being in his arms, he went more cautious, instead enjoying that he trusted him any amount in the first place.

They turned onto the faintest indication of a dirt path by a birch tree, the crunch of dry vegetation beneath them and the vineyards beside them. Erthor squinted, hoping he remembered where it was. It had been a while since he practiced here. Before he found Bleak Flats, he had other practicing spots, starting at this pond. It was close enough to get to and from the city without a horse, and Adrienne was okay with that spot… until one of his experiments ended with a vineyard covered in the skin of a giant exploded grape. And then she told him to go somewhere further out, which he did. The cycle of finding a spot, endangering someone, then being told to move out more repeated a few times until he ended up at Bleak Flats, a small cave system a day-or-so’s walk out from Skingrad. There he remained, no one to bother him or tell him how reckless and stupid he was for doing his work. 

At least Glarthir appreciated his talents. Erthor always took him to be an intellectual, always watching others and notetaking like he was an explorer describing the culture of an unknown people. And considering some of the heckling he was subjected to, as well as the vicious rumors about him, perhaps he saw the “scamp incident” as karmic justice. The thing did claw up some people before Erthor could return it back to Oblivion, almost passing out in the process. He would’ve said he learned something from that whole debacle, but not even the amount of money he paid in damages, nor how much Adrienne screamed at him afterwards, could stop him from his magical pursuits. 

Erthor stopped a few feet out from the pond’s rocky shores. “Alright!” he said triumphantly, turning to Glarthir, “Let me see the basic spells in this book and I’ll guide you through them.”

Glarthir stared blankly into the distance, jumping and turning around when he realised someone was talking to him. “Oh! Um… of course,” he stuttered, handing him the book.

The mage forced his smile to remain muted despite how he wanted to push it further. His nervousness was cute. He gleaned over the introductory text, picking up things that might prove useful and discarding the rest. The unknown nature of the school, the theories as to how its power was derived, the boring topic of how to use soul trap ethically, and a list of spells associated with the school. For their first lesson, he’d focus on telekinesis, and once he understood that, dispelling magical effects or reflecting spells. And if this became a normal occurrence, then Erthor more time to… practice. Only then did he realise how unprepared he was to teach this, but he brushed his anxiety off. It was a simple spell, after all. He could do it blind.

“Okay,” he said, creasing the tip of a page and shutting the book, “Follow me. We’ll need to get closer to the water.” Glarthir nodded, lagging behind as he lead him to the shore. Erthor placed the book on a nearby rock. “Do you know anything about Mysticism?”

“Yes,” he said laconically.

Glarthir had a talent for shutting down conversations, but he pushed on despite that. “Anything… specific?”

“It’s the magic of the Psijic Order. I’ve researched them before.”

“Researched them, you say?”

Glarthir nodded. “Not as much as other groups, but enough to understand.”

“Hm. What other groups are you interested in?”

He went quiet, shifting nervously. Before Erthor could direct the conversation elsewhere, he listed “Daedra and their worshippers, the Alessian Order, Ayleids.”

The impression he got of him was right after all. “Interesting.”

“I’ve always liked educating myself on the history of Tamriel. Never know when that knowledge could come in handy.”

A smile wormed its way back on his face as he nodded in agreement. The enigma was unraveling, and he liked the elf he saw behind it. “That’s a good way of looking at it,” he said, playfully adding ”Better to know than to be stupid.”

Glarthir smiled, a hint of a laugh escaping his lips, his repression loosening. “Exactly! Now, teach me to do what you did.”

Erthor’s smirked, a smug and self-assured look on his face. “Watch.”

Focusing his attention to the water, he magically probed around for a glob of water to pick up. Settling on an impressive, but achievable size, he moved it out of the pond and pulled it closer to him, the shaky mass rippling as unseen forces pushed it into a rough ball shape. Glancing over, his heart skipped, although in excitement or worry, he didn’t know. Glarthir focused on the waterball, Erthor’s grip on it loosening as bits escaped his magical grasp. He didn’t notice nor care, and watched in awe. Hands shaking, he moved the water back out over the pond, and “intentionally” dropped it a foot or so over the surface. Droplets scattered as the pond reacted, waves rolling from the impact and brushing gently against the shore.

“Amazing,” Glarthir whispered to himself.

“I… I know!” Erthor gasped, trying to cover up his fatigue and ignoring the precursor to a headache. He continued as he pushed himself up against a rock for support. “Now, focus on the water. Really… really _feel_ what you’re going to move. Don’t do too much at once unless you want to strain yourself. And once you think you’re ready, move your arms up like you’re lifting something.”

Glarthir stared at the water for a few seconds, before shooting his arms out and, slowly, dragging a ball of water out from the lake. He dropped it before it could separate itself from the pond, but he expected that. “Did… did I do well?” Glarthir asked, eyes focused on his teacher.

The attention shook his confidence, but only for a second. “Absolutely!” he cheered, “Do that again.”

He nodded and returned his focus. This time, he lifted the ball completely out of the pond, it hovering a few inches away from the surface before he dropped it. Erthor picked a nearby peony as he watched, an idea forming in his head. He’d look cute with a flower tucked behind his ear, and he couldn’t stop Erthor from trying to put one there. With the third attempt, Erthor joked that Glarthir should try doing it with his eyes closed, and, taking the bait, did what he was told. Taking the peony up with his magic, he softly and unsteadily pushed its stem behind his ear, causing Glarthir’s eyes to snap open and the waterball he held about a foot above the water to fall apart.

“What in Oblivion did you-” he yelled, tearing the peony out. He stopped, holding the translucent stem in his fingers and focusing on the delicate pink petals radiating out from its centre. He stared at Erthor, dumbfounded, then back to the flower, a slight redness tinging his cheeks. “I… um….” he stuttered, rolling the stem between his thumb and index finger, twirling the flower around.

“What?” Erthor smirked. 

“Y… You’re being awfully nice to me.” His flustered confusion faded into agitation, Erthor’s grin falling as Glarthir tipped his head up and glared at him. “You want something from me, don’t you? That’s what all this is about, _isn’t it_?”

“W-what?” Erthor blinked. Glarthir wasn’t wrong; he _did_ want something from him, but his snarl implied malicious intent.

“No one is ever nice to me unless they _want_ something from me. You _want_ something from me, _don’t you?_ ” His anger was broken up by small shards of pain, of perceived betrayal. “Whatever you want from me, you’ll _never_ get it.”

“Glarthir, I-”

“Shut up. I’m leaving.”

Erthor’s heart skipped, his breath forced out of him like a kick to his gut. Glarthir didn’t come over to take the book for his own independent study, but instead walked without it. He ruined it. He ruined it all. Erthor would’ve been content with his friendship if that’s what Glarthir wanted, but he couldn’t even manage that. He blinked away tears, trying to be strong. He thought he found someone, someone who could appreciate his work like he did. Someone who wouldn’t call him reckless for his experiments. A twinge of anger pierced his thoughts. A feeling of vindication, of how stupid he was to believe anything could work out between the two of him, but his brief rage pained him more. 

He couldn’t help being this way, could he? No one would willingly _choose_ to be like this, to be distrustful, to run from kindness and believe it to be hiding evil, to be this repressed and holding back their thoughts and emotions. Did he choose to isolate himself, or was he pressured to as a response to all the rumours, all the snide comments about him, talking about him as if he was invisible, the open secret of how much people disliked him? The rumours, at least some of them, had a grain of truth to them. He _did_ watch people, he _did_ write in his notebook, he _did_ act strange, but that was who he was. That was who he fell in love with. Erthor loved him despite his issues, even if it hurt him. His behaviour made sense, even if now he could never help him overcome his fears.

“I… I’m sorry.” What else could he say? He was sorry for overstepping a boundary he didn’t know of. He was sorry for dragging him out here. He was sorry for how others treated him. He was sorry for it all, even if most of his issues weren’t his fault.

Glarthir stopped. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” His smile was as cracked as his words. “It hurts to be talked about like you are.”

He was silent, yet still.

“It hurts when you feel no one cares about you.”

“No one does.”

Erthor paused. A response. “That’s wrong.”

“Its not. It’s so evident, you’d have to be an idiot or deaf to not notice.”

Erthor approached him. “Guess I’m deaf and you’re blind.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” His voice was unsteady and shifting.

“I care about you.”

Glarthir snapped his head around. “We just met!” he yelled, “You can’t care about me because you don’t know me!”

“I know enough to _want_ to know you, don’t I?”

“I… I don’t… You don’t…?”

Erthor stood beside Glarthir, who was hunched over, face in his hands. “I do.”

“You don’t know me and you don’t _want_ to know me. You’ll know me and learn to hate me, and use me as a pawn for your schemes. I will not be a victim to it any longer.”

Erthor had a plan, reckless even by his standards, but worth a shot. “I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I know where you’re coming from. I know how it feels to be othered and looked down on.”

“No you don’t. Don’t lie to me.”

“You know how people look at me since the scamp incident?” His voice got stronger, more serious. “You know how people talk about me since then? You know that the Guild hides things from me to stop me from causing any more trouble, impeding my research and development as a mage?”

He was quiet, but his breathing hitched.

“I _do_ know how it feels. And I don’t want you to suffer through that feeling alone.”

Glarthir was hyperventilating.

Now, the recklessness. “Would it be okay if I hugged you?”

The other Bosmer hesitated, his breath ceasing. His hands fell away, slowly turning his head and revealing his face to him. In his confusion was an innocence, betrayal and a disbelief hiding the tiniest spark of hope. Erthor gently picked the pansy from him and put it back where it belonged, tucking it neatly behind his ear. Glarthir said nothing, his eyes darting from the flower to Erthor to the ground, waiting for a future that Erthor simply couldn’t give him. He had no ill will towards him, and he guessed that Glarthir hated that. Glarthir blinked back tears.

“I… no,” he managed to say, shrinking down slightly as he awaited a negative reaction.

His plan didn’t go as thought, but it didn’t matter. “That’s okay,” Erthor said, smiling, “Want to continue practicing?”

“Do... do you hate me?”

He snorted at the question, forgetting for a moment he asked it in earnest. “Of course not!”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want something from me?”

“Well...” Erthor grinned devilishly, “Is friendship too much to ask from you?”

Glarthir locked up for a moment, then a smile sprouted on his face. “You’re joking.”

“If I was, I’d remember the punchline.”

“You’re joking!” It wasn’t an accusation, but joyful disbelief. The smile kept growing, a glimmer of hope finally shining in his eyes.

“I promise I’m not!” Glarthir’s smile was infectious. He found himself mimicking the crazed, delightful look the elf in front of him had.

And, not conforming to any of Erthor’s predictions, not following any of his realistic hypothesises, Glarthir hugged him, laughing wildly, a happiness only hinted at and restrained before and now coming out with full force. With such manic and emulatable energy, Erthor found himself laughing, enjoying every second the Nine let him hold him in his arms. How long had he been waiting to laugh like this? When did someone last hug him? The elf in front of him was tasting friendship for the first time in years, felt comfortable to laugh as if he truly was as far gone as people said he was. There was no insanity to him, no mystery to be solved, but a person behind his facade. Erthor was honoured to be one of the few people, maybe the first in a long while, to see it.

Glarthir let go, grabbing his wrist and dragging him back to the pond with a giddy glee. “Can we continue?” he giggled, “We’ve still got time left!”

Erthor smirked and strained himself picking up a tiny ball of water, and slinging it onto Glarthir. “That answer your question?” he teased. 

Before he could react, he found himself drenched, Glarthir’s laughter picking up again. “That answer yours?”

That was all the justification they needed to start pelting each other with water like snowballs. As if they were decades younger, they ran around the pond, never once losing their grins as they ducked behind rocks and trees to evade each other’s attacks. Erthor played defensively, both out of necessity and out of fun. The hot sun shone above them, its heat no match for the cool water from the pond. To his surprise, Glarthir was becoming quite proficient with this simple telekinesis spell, and if he hated him more, he would’ve envied his skill, but he didn’t. Perhaps his own focus on Destruction to the detriment of all other schools stunted him, or maybe Glarthir was meant to master Mysticism. He couldn’t dwell on it for long, lest he open himself to an easy shot. 

The two played for a half hour or so before tiring and retiring against a rock, skipping stones. Erthor didn’t have the heart to call Glarthir out on using magic to make his stones skip better, and even if he did, he’d keep his mouth shut so he could watch him enjoy himself. When they tired of that they chatted for hours .It surprised Erthor that Glarthir was so articulate, and despite how nonsensical his rant on one of Skingrad’s famous vintners was, he was entertaining to listen to. When one felt the urge to leave, the other would ensnare them with a new conversation, or by chucking a rock at each other via magic, but as the sun inched closer to the horizon, they knew they couldn’t stay here forever.

Entering the city with the buzz of crickets behind them, Erthor asked Glarthir “May I walk you home?”

“I can walk home by myself, thank you very much,” he teased.

“Be that way. I guess we’ll go our separate ways from here.”

“Um… c-can I walk _you_ to the Mages Guild? Do you live there?”

Still awkward and shy, but still adorable. “For tonight I do, and you may.”

Glarthir flashed a smile and grabbed one of Erthor’s wrists and started walking. Blushing and thankful that he wasn’t looking back at him, he let him drag him all the way to the Mages Guild, meandering down roads Erthor knew were inefficient to travel along to get to the Guild, but happy to spend a few more minutes with him. Once they finally arrived, Glarthir’s expression shifted for the first time in hours.

“Can we practice tomorrow?” he asked, a sadness coating his eyes.

Erthor’s heart pained. Unless he wanted to come with him and live in Bleak Flats for a week, he couldn’t say yes. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, internally cringing as he saw Glarthir’s heart cracking, “I spend most of my time outside of the city. But-” he saw his eyes brighten slightly “-we can do this next week. How about that?”

Glarthir laughed. “I’m fine with that!”

“Good. Around noon?”

“Noon is fine.”

“Good.” Erthor gave Glarthir one last smile before leaving him. “I had a good time with you today.”

“I… I did too. Thank you.”

Erthor blushed. “Y-you’re welcome. Have a good night Glarthir.”

“Y-you too Erthor.”

Reluctant, he closed the door behind him, leaving him alone once again. Out of all his experiments, none had been as successful as the one that came to a close with the door. A chance meeting leading to the development of a friendship, and hopefully to something more. Glad he didn’t kill his love when he thought it was hopeless, Erthor climbed up the stairs and into the bedrooms of the Guild. Worn out despite the hour, Erthor curled up in bed, deciding to occupy his time with a book on Daedra, yet finding his attention drifting off the page. His fantasies of romancing the eccentric elf wild in his mind made it difficult to concentrate. He indulged himself, delighting in the possible day in the future where he could cuddle up with Glarthir, hold him in his arms, and listen to him ramble about whatever Daedra he knew the most about. In time, he thought. He hated having to wait for anything, but for Glarthir, he was willing to bide his time. Until then, he could think about what next week held for them both.

* * *

Glarthir sat in his basement, a candle lit on the table as he sifted through his notebook. Finding a blank page, he dipped his quill in ink and wrote an entry down.

_I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve let my guard down around this one Bosmer, and I think I’m okay with doing that. For all I know, he could be working with the conspiracy and waiting for the chance to kill me, but something in me says that’s not the case. I feel safe with him. I feel like I can trust him._

_I’ll have to investigate further._

His heart skipped. What was he doing, putting his trust into this elf, this Erthor fellow from the Mages Guild? It was reckless, it was stupid, it was… right. His instincts never lied to him, but he couldn’t remember a time where they told him someone was safe. Erthor was safe, and he didn’t know what about him put him at ease. Glarthir felt strange thinking about him, a longing to be with him he had never experienced with anyone else, a burst of happiness thinking about the day they spent together and optimism for the future. When had he ever been optimistic or seen the future positively? Perhaps he had someone to depend on in this city of secrets.

Perhaps he could trust him.


End file.
